Scarecrow ReAnimated
by Twinings
Summary: The Scarecrow is now a patient in the hospital that once was his. As if that wasn't bad enough, the new patient down the hall won't stop ranting about the walking dead. Can Arkham Asylum possibly survive a meeting between Jonathan Crane and Herbert West
1. Chapter 1

El Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. I don't own Re-Animator. I wish I did, but I don't. Give me Jonathan Crane, Herbert West, and a couple of straitjackets, and I'd do things I'm far too ladylike to fully understand. (snort)

I was honestly trying to stop doing abusive Scarecrow fics, but this just seemed like such a natural pairing. And hey, I likes me a man in glasses.

So, I'm sure it's important to know that this takes place shortly after _Batman Begins_, and maybe a year after _Re-Animator_. I'm completely ignoring _Bride of Re-Animator_, and just barely acknowledging _Beyond Re-Animator_, which won't have happened yet, so it doesn't matter anyway. And, um...yeah. This is my least professional introduction to date!

Le Dedication: This is for me daddy, the Jeffrey Combs fanboy. He taught me well.

Scarecrow Reanimated

Dr. Jonathan Crane—as he still thought of himself, even though his medical license had been revoked a month ago—lay awake in his hospital bed as he did each night, unable to sleep, but unable to get up and do anything. They kept him heavily sedated and confined—and rightly so. Had he been able to move much more than his eyeballs, he would have been gone in an instant.

But the drugs kept him suspended between consciousness and sleep, which was not only unpleasant, but dangerous, he occasionally realized. Sleep deprivation was…bad. He couldn't quite remember why. He couldn't focus on anything anymore. His days were a blur. The only thing he felt anymore was the pain brought on by hours of confinement in a straitjacket. He had never realized just how uncomfortable the damn things could be. Now, at last, he understood the violent thrashing of his former patients, who…

He lost his train of thought. Was the light bulb staring at him?

"No!" Crane's eyes moved slowly to the door, not that he would be able to see anything. The sound of the screaming was coming closer. "No! I'm not mad! I'm not!" The new patient was male, fairly young, well-educated, with a trace of Europe in his accent. He was frantic, but not hysterical. "Listen to me!" He sounded sane enough, but that meant nothing. "You've got to believe me!" Listening as the new patient was dragged past his door, Crane noticed the distinct lack of the word "please," which was so conspicuous in most patients' initial rantings. This one had an ego. If he wasn't simply delusional, but actually had something to base his pride upon, he could prove interesting…

No, he was thinking like a doctor again. Chances were, he was never even going to meet the new patient. And…

Yes, the light bulb was definitely staring at him.


	2. Chapter 2

The nurse looked down at Jonathan Crane with a feeling that was mostly pity. Until recently, he had been her boss, and she had always liked him in an impersonal sort of way. She had admired him for his brilliant mind, and she hated to see him reduced to this.

"Good morning, Dr. Crane," she said as she and her orderly entered the room. Dr. Crane's eyes followed her; otherwise he made no response.

Sheila was one of the few who still called him "doctor." Most of the others just called him Crane. A few called him Scarecrow. It was hard for some of the medical staff to accept that one of their own had gone so clearly off the deep end. But Sheila had known this man since he was a shy, awkward medical student. She remembered how much it had meant to him to be called doctor, to be respected. Now he had lost nearly everything, including his mind. She couldn't bring herself to take his title away from him, too.

Barney began undoing the straps that held Dr. Crane to the bed. Completely unnecessary, in Sheila's opinion. They kept him pumped so full of drugs, he couldn't have moved even if he hadn't been restrained. He was never going to get better like this, but nobody seemed to know what to do with him.

"Are you ready for your sponge bath, Dr. Crane?" He rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. Terribly undignified, but necessary. I'll be quick."

She chatted about nothing in particular, keeping her voice low and gentle, while Barney stripped him. Barney was a good man, never too rough with the patients who didn't deserve it, but strong enough to take them out in a second if they did. He was another one who respected the mind's power. He was easy with Dr. Crane now, impersonal and efficient, but easy.

"You know, Dr. Crane, I'll be retiring next week. If I was a cop in a movie, I'd be the one fixing to get shot. My son, Adam, used to love those silly action movies." She always talked about her sons while bathing him. It was her way of reminding him that she was too old to be a candy striper. She knew it must be humiliating enough for him to have his naked body seen and handled by almost total strangers; how much worse would it be to have one of those silly little girls giggling over at him? Besides, taking care of him really did bring out her motherly feelings. He was nothing at all like her big, strapping sons, and yet, he was. Before becoming the Scarecrow, he had been the intelligent, respectable doctor she had always secretly hoped at least one of her children would grow up to be. They had disappointed her, turning to the one profession open to all the poor boys in Gotham City.

And Crane had disappointed her, too, wasting his potential. She had thought he was better than that.

"You're a good nurse," he said, speaking thickly. "I would have given you a watch."

Sheila smiled at the boy. It was rare for him to speak to anyone these days; even rarer for him to say anything pleasant.

"That would have been lovely, Dr. Crane. Just lovely." She stepped back to let Barney dress him in a clean paper uniform. "What's the plan for today? Do you feel up to taking a little air outside?"

"No…no straitjacket." My, my. He was unusually responsive today.

"Suit yourself. But we have a new patient—you may have heard them bringing him in last night—and I'm sure you'd like to meet him. He's a former doctor, like yourself."

"Who?"

"A young man from Massachusetts named Herbert West." Crane's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Miskatonic…"

"That's right. He's been transferred from one Arkham to another." She patted her patient's shoulder gently. "You be good, now, Dr. Crane. I have other patients to see about. If you change your mind about going outside, I'll see you in the garden, dear." He didn't answer, lapsing again into a brooding silence. She smiled at him anyway as she left.

She wondered how many of her patients even noticed that she always had a smile for them.

Herbert West glared sullenly at her when she and Barney entered his room.

"Good morning, Mr. West," she said. "Or do you prefer doctor?"

"Don't patronize me," he said stiffly.

"I'm not patronizing you. I just want to make this as pleasant as possible for everyone involved. But if you want to do this the hard way, that's fine, too. Just let me know if you're going to cooperate, or if Barney will have to restrain you while I bathe you."

"I'm perfectly capable of bathing myself. I do _not_ need your assistance."

"All right. Barney, hold him down for me."

She honestly hated to treat him like this. He seemed like an intelligent, relatively civilized young man, not at all what she had expected from what she'd heard about him. He had been convicted of the murders of three people, as well as the mutilation of a dozen corpses in the Miskatonic morgue, had come up with some wild story about zombies, and had been put away largely based on the testimony of his own roommate and research partner, whose fiancée had been one of the victims.

This young man was hostile, but not irrational. He must be frightened, but he kept his fear under control. He might not be exactly sane, but she thought he was like poor Dr. Crane, a brilliant, sick young man who needed _help_, not the indifferent combination of abuse and neglect that most of the rest of the staff had to offer.

"Get your hands off me," West snapped as Barney began to unbutton his shirt. In seconds, the big orderly had him stripped completely naked and back in his restraints.

"We're just doing our job, Mr. West. Do try to relax. There's nothing to be gained by fighting us."

He glared daggers at her while she washed him.

"Degrading nonsense," he muttered.

"Personally, I agree. I can see that you're well enough to do for yourself, and if you prove not to be the violent type, eventually the people in charge will see that, too. Until then, all we can do is make the best of it. So, tell me, Mr. West, how are you feeling today?"

"I don't belong here. I'm not insane."

"Yes, I know. I've heard that one before. But physically, are you all right? I hope the boys weren't too rough bringing you in last night." She didn't see any bruises, but that didn't mean anything. West didn't answer, so she shrugged and patted his shoulder. "Well, you're all clean now, anyway. Later, the doctors will come in to check on you, and then after breakfast you'll be allowed to go outside for a little while, if you feel up to it." She watched as Barney dressed the sullen young man, quickly and efficiently. "Don't let yourself get discouraged, Mr. West. It's really not so bad here."

Just then, one of the other patients started screaming.

"You're among friends," she said with a sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

Jonathan Crane listened with mostly-unfeigned indifference to the conversation of his two doctors, who seemed to think they were safe discussing him as if he wasn't there.

"I think we should reduce his meds."

"Is that wise?"

"It's _humane._ How long has it been since he's slept?"

"It could be dangerous."

"Oh, come on. What kind of threat could he possibly pose?" Someone shined a light in his eyes. He followed the motion sluggishly.

"The last time he was fully conscious, he nearly destroyed the city."

"Ransom," Crane murmured. They ignored him.

"I didn't say we should wake him up and turn him loose outside. Just give the drugs a rest. He'll die if we keep this up."

"You're exaggerating. He wouldn't die."

"He's half-dead now."

Crane lost interest in the conversation. They had already injected him with his daily dose of happy juice, and he didn't have the ability to care about anything for more than a few seconds at a time.

He heard a mention of food. Not interesting. A young, pretty intern. Didn't care. Sheila Rosen's retirement party. That, he was mildly interested in, but they had moved on before he could make himself pay attention.

For a little while, he was captivated by the pattern of light and shadow on the ceiling. After that, nothing.

--

He came to himself a good while later with the sun shining on his face. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming. He shivered.

"Cold, dear?" He looked up at Nurse Sheila's smiling face.

"Oh…" Just a meaningless sound, but the best answer he could give her.

Awareness of his surroundings came slowly. He was in a wheelchair, being pushed around the garden path by one of the orderlies—Barney, he assumed. Sheila walked beside him with one hand on his shoulder. He could hardly feel the comforting pressure of her gnarled hand through his straitjacket.

Cold. Was he cold? No. The breeze on his face was cool, but not unbearable. The straitjacket, if nothing else, kept him warm.

"It's a nice day, isn't it?" Sheila said.

"Um." She patted him gently.

"That's all right, dear. Just enjoy it." She sounded out of breath. She really was too old to be working here. Forty years was a long time. "That other young man, West, is around here somewhere. If you'd like to spend a few minutes getting to know him, I can take some time to rest my tired old legs."

"Oh…yes…"

They came in sight of the new patient, a small, dark-haired young man with glasses too big for his face. He looked pissed, but he sat still and quiet in his chair, possibly because the straitjacket prevented him from moving, or possibly because he had already learned that the orderly behind him was not one of the gentle ones.

"Good morning, Roy," Sheila called. "Would you be a lamb and get my patient a blanket? It's a mite chilly out here."

"I can't leave this one alone, Miss Sheila."

"Oh, Barney can handle him. You run along now, young fellow. Do an old lady a favor." The orderly looked her over and decided not to tell her to do it herself. He left. "Damn fool," Sheila said, still smiling sweetly. "Well, how are you, Mr. West? _Do_ you prefer doctor?"

"Doctor, if you please. And these 'precautions' are ridiculous. I haven't displayed any violent tendencies or made any attempts to escape."

"Standard procedure, I'm afraid. No patient leaves the building without a straitjacket. You should consider yourself lucky that you're allowed this much freedom. Security has been tight around here since the 'incident.' Speaking of which, Dr. West, I'd like you to meet another of our patients, Dr. Jonathan Crane." West frowned.

"The administrator?"

"Yes, formerly. I suppose that means you haven't been getting much news from Gotham City in that other hospital you were in."

"What kind of place is this, locking up your own doctors?" West demanded with a slight sneer.

"Now, be fair. Dr. Crane is the only one so far." She patted both their shoulders. "You two introduce yourselves. I'll be over there, having a nice sit. Oh, and Dr. West, don't be offended if Dr. Crane isn't very talkative. I'm sure he'll have plenty to say to you if the sedatives ever wear off." She withdrew to sit on a nearby bench. Barney stayed with them, an unobtrusive silent Presence.

The two former doctors stared each other down, each taking the other's measure. Crane had to admit he was impressed by what he saw and heard. The other man was soft-spoken and articulate, even when irritated. There was intelligence in his brown eyes, as well as a certain air of coldness that a superstitious fool might have called soullessness. Crane recognized it as intellect superseding emotion. West looked almost presentable even in a straitjacket. Crane hated to think what impression he must be giving.

"Heard of you," he said, speaking with considerable difficulty. "Fascinating theories. Any practical application?" It was the longest string of words he had put together all week.

"I had been working on it. That's how I ended up here."

"Yes?"

"It's…a bit technical."

"Psychopharmacologist." The word took a lot out of him. "Not just a psycho."

"No offense intended, Dr. Crane." His voice sounded different now, slightly more respectful. "My research, as you must know, was focused on death. Specifically…"

Just then, a butterfly landed on Crane's lap. Try as he might, he couldn't wrench his attention away from it. Pretty little fluttering thing, it was going to die in this cooling weather. He watched its wings flap, thought of bats, and shuddered.

"That nurse is having a heard attack," West said.

Crane looked up to see Sheila sprawled on the ground, Barney bending over her.

"Oh."

"I'll get you a doctor," Barney said, squeezing the old woman's hand.

"I'm a doctor," Crane and West said together. Barney looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Sure. Don't go away, Doc." He picked Sheila up and ran with her toward the building.

Crane and West looked at each other. Then, realizing they were alone, they started struggling to get free of their straitjackets before Roy came back with that blanket.

Pointless struggle. There wasn't nearly enough time.

--

"I want to go to her funeral."

"Out of the question, Dr. Crane," the replacement administrator insisted.

"Her sons won't be there. She should have someone." The administrator cleared his throat nervously.

"Barney wrote down her last words. He thought the message would be important to you." He held out a piece of paper to Crane, who stared coolly back, waiting for the other man to remember that he was still bound in a straitjacket and strapped down to his wheelchair. "Erm—'Told you I was fixing to get shot, eh, Jonathan? Oh, well. You get well soon. I wish my sons had turned out half as good as you.'"

"I _want_ to go to her _funeral_," Crane repeated firmly.

"I realize that, but regardless of how close you may have been to the woman, you know I can't let you leave this facility."

"Please." Saying the word to this little worm was like ripping out his own fingernails. The worm didn't seem to realize.

"Sorry, Crane. My hands are tied."

Crane looked pointedly down at his own bound body, looked back up at the administrator, and gave him a mocking smile. The administrator took a step back from the intensity of his gaze.

"What's the matter, doctor? There's nothing to be _afraid_ of."

The administrator cleared his throat again.

"I think it's about time for you to go back to your room."

"Get your strongest orderly. I'm a dangerous madman, after all." He chuckled. "I'll grind your bones to make my bread."

"That's enough."

Oh, no. Not nearly enough. In all the fuss, they had forgotten his evening medication, and his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. He was quite amused by the little worm's nervousness, but gibbering terror would have been even better.

Best of all was when Roy the orderly brought him back to his room. Five minutes alone together was all he needed.

--

The administrator relented enough to allow Crane to join the group meeting the hearse when it came to get the body.

He submitted willingly when Roy, sweating and twitchy, came to put him into yet another straitjacket. He arrived at the front gates looking perfectly well secured.

He was not surprised to see West, although West did seem surprised to be there. Crane smiled. Poor Roy, so disappointingly easy.

He parked Crane's wheelchair next to West's, on the edge of the crowd. West stiffened when he felt the orderly tugging on his restraints.

"Relax," Crane told him, keeping his voice low. "Act natural. Expect fireworks. Be ready to run. You'll recognize the signal."

"Should I assume that you have a clever plan?"

"Of course. You're driving."

West nodded, as if that explained everything.

Excellent.

Minutes later, the hearse pulled up to the gate. Four orderlies loaded the pine box into the back. A solemn moment of silence.

Then, a bloodcurdling scream.

Everyone turned to look at Roy as he threw himself off the roof of the asylum. When they looked back, they saw two empty wheelchairs sitting by the gate. The hearse was gone.

--

Another plan carried off brilliantly. Crane leaned back in his seat, watching the Gotham scenery whizzing by.

"Did you have any particular destination in mind?" West asked.

"Out of the city. Quickly, before they have time to light the batsignal."

"What's a batsignal?"

Crane closed his eyes, very briefly. When he opened them again, they were in a completely different part of the city.

"Um…what?" he mumbled.

Damn. Now that he was off the drugs, all that sleep he had lost was catching up with him.

_It's not safe to fall asleep. Now now, not yet._

West glanced over at him.

"Awake again?" His voice was soft, a perfect bedside manner. "You're going to be all right. You're suffering from—"

"I'm a _doctor._ I know how this works," Crane snapped.

"Just trying to help."

Crane struggled to sit up straighter.

"Wasn't there a hearse driver here a minute ago?"

"He's in the back. Unconscious."

"Is that…safe?" He slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to stay awake.

"Safe, schmafe. You're about to crash. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

"I…I'm not tired."

"Go to sleep, Dr. Crane. I'll be sure to wake you if there's trouble."

He didn't mean to close his eyes again. He didn't even notice when it happened.

--


End file.
